


Bloodied Yet Unbowed

by Massgrav



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alcohol, Circle Politics, Circle of Magi, Hurt/Comfort, Kinloch Hold (Dragon Age), M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:02:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28032060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Massgrav/pseuds/Massgrav
Summary: ''Your reaction was more than rightful.''He blinked, a little puzzled. ''You would then not deem me a brainless, dangerous anarchist ?''''Not brainless, at least,'' Jowan shook his head, laughing.—A little company is sometimes good.
Relationships: Jowan/Uldred (Dragon Age)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 6





	Bloodied Yet Unbowed

**Author's Note:**

> This story had been lurking at the back of my mind for some time... Inspired by the lyrics of Primordial's ''Bloodied Yet Unbowed''.  
> Enjoy! ♥

The debate had ended hours ago, and yet he had not managed to calm down. He was still seething, still holding his jaw tightly clenched, forbidding himself to even whisper. But it did not prevent his thoughts from rioting. He looked down at his hand, at the torn skin and dried blood, still gleaming by areas in the candle's light. He ground his teeth as he passed the fingers of his other hand through the flickering flame, sinking his nails in his palm as to compensate the pain. It was useless – nothing could calm his inner, furious turmoil. Even spontaneous combustion would feel as fresh as a Winter morning. 

Fuck you all, he muttered to himself, taking hold of his glass before he blistered his hand for good, and downed the amber liquid in one draught. It was not nearly as burning as he would like it. Perhaps chugging lava would feel more satisfying – even if radically so.   
Why did he still bother to even try and debate with those bigoted Loyalists? Even the Aequitarians, who in the first minutes had seemed reasonable, had quickly forsaken the rare bits of mind they had painfully managed to gather. Even Thekla, though a Libertarian himself, had given up halfway through this joke of a debate. It was pointless, he said. They would not get anything satisfying out of it, and brainless violence did not appeal to him in the least. 

Oh, but it had been satisfying, at least for a moment. Even if it had indeed been quite stupid to get up and hit that arrogant, Chantry-brainwashed bastard right in the mouth, it had felt good. But of course, the Templars had to intervene. They had declared the debate over, and had tried to calm them all down. He looked at his injured hand again : bruising had started to spread, darker on some areas. He knew he had broken a few fingers punching that good dog in the jaw – helmet, the pain corrected. Yet even though it had felt liberating on the moment, he was now left with only bitterness. 

Nothing liquor can't erase, he sighed to himself, downing another glass.   
He had no idea what time it was, or if there would be any sanction for his impulsive behaviour. All he knew was that the whiskey bottle was half-empty, and that he felt utterly empty himself. He was not even drunk. His anger was too voracious to allow any other sensation to settle in. He wondered whether or not Irving would buy it, when he would once again tell him no more bloody-knuckled politics, I swear. It was a mystery to him, why the old man believed each and every of his deceitful promises. He swore to himself he would leave the stage in flames, before the gradual loss of his mind rendered him as senile as the First Enchanter was.   
Orsino would scold him as if he were a careless child. He would compare Kinloch Hold and the Gallows – again –, and underline that for such a behaviour in Kirkwall, the Knight-Commander would have had his skin. 

Whatever, he muttered, considering downing the rest of the bottle, but he decided against it. It did not even make it better, or worse. Seeing his reflection in the glass made him realise how terrible he looked, as he had almost forgotten that the Templar had returned him his blow, splitting his lip and his cheekbone. Gauntlets were cheating. 

Behind him, the door creaked open. His quarters were never locked, though the Templars always believed they were. An easy trick played on their mind. Had they come to take him to the dungeon? The gentle, careful clicking of the door testified otherwise. He turned around, as his expectation to hear the Chantry's dogs, barking orders at him, was betrayed. His surprise was genuine, as instead of stern men of steel, he saw Jowan. 

His apprentice was leaning against the door, listening for any sign beyond it that would tell him his sneaking had been spotted. Only silence – outside, and between them. Uldred stupidly looked at him, knowing he should tell him to go away, as to keep up with his bitterness and act accordingly to it. But he could only stare confusedly, when the young man finally turned to him and smiled timidly – worriedly. 

''I had not seen you since the debate,'' he said softly. ''Are you alright?'' 

He nodded, still bewildered, and even more in the face of such attention. His voice was reluctant to come out, as to prevent any word from being uttered : any would be too harsh, too aggressive. ''I'm sorry it ended this way,'' Jowan resumed, closing the space that held them apart. ''Your reaction was more than rightful.'' 

''You would then not deem me a brainless, dangerous anarchist ?'' He blinked, a little puzzled. 

''Not brainless, at least,'' Jowan shook his head, laughing. ''The patrols were busier than usual, I could not come earlier – it's already four.'' 

So, he had spent the entire evening, and night drinking his anger away – in vain. He felt utterly idiotic. Daylight was already painful in usual circumstances. Sleeplessness was not an issue ; this, he had grown used to. But alcohol's aftermath always made everything too bright, too loud, too much. The morning bells would toll in only two hours from now, which left him quite little time to brace himself for the coming day. 

''Can I help ?'' Jowan enquired, as he sat by his side at the writing desk. ''It must hurt,'' he nodded to his damaged hand. 

''It does indeed,'' he realised as he confirmed, opening his fist for the first time since nightfall. He winced, summoning the dried blood to awake, and mend his skin back together. It still baffled him, how such casual use of blood magic had never been spotted by anyone. The bruising remained, but most of it was healed away. Jowan observed that he could have done it. ''My stupidity'', Uldred replied, ''my handling its consequences.'' 

''There's still–'' Jowan raised his hand to the man's cheekbone, his fingers hovering close to the wound, waiting for permission. A small nod gave it. To manipulate someone else's blood required a decently high mastery of blood magic. He never told him, but Jowan was far more talented at it than he, himself, was. A genuine prodigy.   
The wound vanished completely, just as did the one at his lip, seeming to stitch itself back together. 

''Thank you,'' he whispered, cradling his pupil's hand. He had not even realised he had taken it, or knew why he was stroking it so fondly now ; just as he wondered why Jowan's fingers moved to meet his own. 

''You did not lose,'' Jowan pointed out, his other hand coming to cover Uldred's bony own. ''They ran out of arguments, and had to call the end of the session. I wish I could have supported you,,'' he sighed. ''Maybe one day—'' 

''No,'' Uldred cut him off. ''Hope instead that you never get to become tangled in these empty fights. They are but pale imitations of politics ; not so different in their falsity than everything the Circle agrees to give us. Trust me : you will escape before you are even allowed to consider joining one of those Fraternities.'' 

''I would have to pass my Harrowing first,'' Jowan chuckled, bitterly.   
''As I was saying,'' he resumed. ''You will be away before they put you through that nonsense of a test.'' 

The young man's eyes glistened, as they widened. He nodded, smiling as best as he could, though he could hardly dissimulate his anguish. Uldred knew that both prospects of the Harrowing, and of being cast out into the unknown world, terrified him. But it could not be avoided. It must not be.   
''You should rejoice,'' he said, tilting Jowan's chin up, looking into his drowned eyes. ''You will neither get to grow as unbearably bitter as I am, nor hear of me ever again.''   
Jowan's answer to this was silent, and painfully tender, as he wound his arms around his neck. 

''Believe me,'' Uldred carried on in a murmur. ''You will not miss anything from this cursed place and time.'' 

''I will miss you,'' Jowan whispered, holding only tighter to him. ''Please, believe me : I will.''   
His throat clenched. He blamed it on this embrace, that he made deliberately tighter, weaving his own arms around the young man, tracing his spine beneath the fabric of his violet robes.   
''I will miss you too,'' he confessed as the candle died out, shrouding them together in hushed, peaceful darkness.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Please, let me know what you thought?  
> Much love ♥♥♥


End file.
